


Pretty Glass Box

by orphan_account



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arthur is a yandere ok everyone, Choking, Multi, Possessiveness, Spiders?, he's in his clown getup during this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You've had your blinders on for too long.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	Pretty Glass Box

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sick and tired of pretending like Arthur isn't a yandere king

Your eyes are locked on the cigarette smoke, watching it float up, slowly, before dissipating into the darkness of the apartment. 

His form is borderline artistic: the background is dim, but he is lit up by the streetlights shining into the window. He is poised, perfectly, smoking his cigarette, draped in his usual maroon getup. The blood-spatter on his face and suit makes him resemble a tragic figure, trapped in a horrific war. You can see it in your head now: a context of misery, a bedtime story to tell yourself that would convince you that it's alright.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you slowly shuffle over to one of the windows and press the back of your hand to it. The cold is seeping through. The night is relatively empty at the moment: the streets are shimmering with rain, a single man is crossing the street, and you feel worlds apart from the scene before your eyes. Slowly, you withdraw, take a breath, and turn on your heel to face him once more.

You open your mouth and close it. Spiders crawl down your throat. It's a very vivid feeling: their legs are scraping against the sides of your throat, your gag reflex is going wild, there's so much heat and squirming, and you_'_re_ this _close to vomiting - 

You swallow them back down.

"I... I think you should leave." The last word is a bit louder than the rest. Your eyes dart down to the floor.

He flicks his cigarette, which was down to the butt, away. Instinctively, you follow the faint glow as it hits the ground and slowly fades away. There's a rustling noise as he looks at you, an amused glint in his eye. He folds his hands under his chin and grins, ready for you to continue.

You lick your lips awkwardly, trying to find your words again, feeling as if they've somehow been dropped on the apartment floor and you have to pick them up, sharp shards of glass that slice your hands open if you're not careful.

The "relationship" you have - if you were feeling generous enough to call it that - has a unique dynamic that you have just now understood. It is a flower, raised in a pretty glass box, sheltered from the environment. The minute the box is removed, it will slowly rot, unable to survive without the protection. Beautiful, yet doomed to die.

You've had your blinders on for too long. 

There were times you could convince yourself that this was okay. He was just touchy, and you sympathized with him, thinking he was just a man who lost too much. His "protectiveness" was like a corset, tightening slowly, but going beyond the point you couldn't breathe - even then, it did not stop.

The flower wasn't going to die. You were going to cut the stem, toss it in the trash, and put it out of its misery, another forgotten story amongst many.

The words finally come to you, rather languish.

"You should leave."

Suddenly, the apartment heats 20 degrees. Your heart kicks into overdrive, and your blood runs hot. Pacing around, you continue, stronger this time.

"I can't do this anymore," you state, eyes wide and looking at your feet. "I'm leaving you. I can't..." you run out of words again, feeling your heart rattle around in your chest.

There's the sound of the chair scraping against the floor as he stands, and you finally look at him while he advances you, and suddenly you don't feel so emboldened anymore. His hands reach up at your throat before you can stop them and you're pushed up against the wall, and lifted until your feet are separated from the floor.

The temperature keeps going up, and you're desperately reaching at his wrists, nails scratching against his flesh but barely leaving a mark. Pathetic gasps leave your lips as panic sets in, feet flailing about, trying to kick him but missing every single time.

He, on the other hand, is cold and neutral, almost as if _he's bored. _ There's a minute (minute_s_? time is unraveling in your head) where he just holds you there, showing no signs of wavering or hesitance while you flail at him, trying to get him to let go. Vague noises that may or may not be construed as an apology escape you.

"No," he mumbles, voice flat and apathetic. "You're fucking not."

Another loud, desperate noise leaves you before all the pressure abruptly stops and you are dropped to slam onto the floor, landing on your hands. Pain, sharp and clear, shoots through one of your wrists, and you reach out to grasp it, feeling your pulse drum on, alongside the bone beneath the weak exterior. Loud gasps for air leave your mouth as your vision clears, another sharp wave of nausea rolling through you.

The words leave your lips before you can stop them.

"Sorry," you squeak, a miserable little mouse squeaking at an authority figure. You gather on all fours, taking in slower, more even breaths, but remaining a pathetic heap at his feet. "_I love you, _and I'm sorry." There's another moment of total silence where you stare at his legs and feel very, very insignificant and small.

He leans down and you flinch, fearing something - you don't know what - before he cups your face, leaving several small kisses on your lips while a faint smell of paint enters your noise. There's no reciprocation on your end, since you've got no energy to do much but cower at the moment. He pulls away, stands up, and smiles.

You swallow down some bile that comes up. Slow and shaky, you stand.

**Author's Note:**

> btw that hand folding thing he does? i absolutely envisioned him doing it like Monika. i'm sorry


End file.
